


Untitled Pre-Slashy Flufflet

by Saylee



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/Saylee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie doesn't remember his drunken antics. Jeeves is more amused than annoyed. It's all rather cosy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Pre-Slashy Flufflet

I awoke at some ungodly hour of the ack emma. At least I think it was ungodly; I wasn't about to pry open the Wooster eyes just to peer at the clock, what? Anyway, I struggled my way up to consciousness, only to find that Roderick Spode was doing a rummy sort of tap dance inside my skull. Not literally, of course, or I suppose I couldn't have woken up, what with my skull being cracked open and all, but that's certainly what it felt like.

I lay there, the old e.s squeezed shut in abject misery, as my brain-Spode moved into a lumbering ballet. I groaned and buried my head into the starched cotton of my strangely hard and Jeeves-scented pillow, prepared to stay there, like some burrowing animal, at least until the advent of tea or a restorative in the capable hands of my excellent valet.

As I waited, though, a thought began to niggle at me, like a particularly insistent mosquito. Something about the current circs. was decidedly odd, though I was dashed if I could put my finger on it. Still, though Bertram has been called a fathead on many an occasion, and the pounding in the old onion was doing nothing to help the situation, I’m also no Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps, and it dawned on me (admittedly like a particularly foggy morning) that my pillow had never before been hard, Jeeves-scented or made of starched cotton. At just that moment, the pillow made a small sleepy noise and twitched a bit, and I knew it would be up to me to scold it for its most unpillow-like behavior.

Gingerly, I cracked open first one eye, then the other, only to end up goggling blearily at the discombobu-whatsit sight of my faithful manservant in his shirtsleeves and asleep in my bed. There was a damp patch on the Jeevesian shirtfront, and I realised with distant embarrassment that I must have been drooling in my sleep. Hastily I wiped my mouth on my pyjama sleeve, and attempted to prod him awake, all with a minimum of movement, lest my head crack like an especially fragile egg.

“I say, Jeeves,” I I-sayed, and he stirred, blinking up at me with a sleepy confusion on his map that I had heretofore not known him to be capable of.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, his voice raspier than I had ever heard it.

“I say, Jeeves,” I said again, because I had quite suddenly lost the thread of the conversation. I dug around in the old grey matter for the question of the hour, to emerge, figuratively speaking of course, battered but triumphant. “Why are you in my bed?”

At that, his eyes regained their usual sharpness, and his eyebrows jumped a fraction of an inch in horror. I believe he would have leapt from the bed as well, except the young master, which is to say, myself, was still sprawled all over him, and I daresay dumping me to the floor would have taxed his feudal spirit quite as much as the current sitch.

“I am sorry, sir,” he said, and his voice, still sleep-roughened, made my insides do a funny sort of flip. I did my best to ignore this, as said insides already felt quite funny enough what with the no doubt excessive amount of alcohol I appeared to have bunged down the gullet the night before, and certainly didn’t need any jollity added by the s.-r. v. of my faithful manservant.

“I had intended to leave once you had fallen asleep, sir,” Jeeves explained, “I regret that I seem to have drifted off myself.”

I frowned pensively. It was a perfectly reasonable story, and yet it seemed to be missing something. “Well, yes, Jeeves,” I said slowly, putting the pieces together in my mind, like some jolly jigsaw puzzle, “but that doesn’t explain how you got here in the first place. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. This is dashed cosy, what?”

“Yes, sir.” He coughed, much like a distant sheep that is about to enlighten a second sheep on his embarrassing drunken actions – the second sheep’s drunken actions, that is. The first sheep, after all, was Jeeves, and therefore above such things. I cringed, steeling myself for any number of terrible revelations, but his next words proved to be more terrible than I could have imagined. “You were most insistent, sir.”

I gave a hoarse cry, and attempted to fling myself off of him, give the chap his space and whatnot, only the brain-Spode took exception to that, and I slumped forward onto his chest again, groaning piteously. “I’m sorry, Jeeves. I’m so sorry.” So much for being a preux chevalier. “If I ever try anything like that again, biff me in the eye, would you? I insist on it old chap. Just don’t go, please.” I kept my face buried in his chest, even when I felt a warm hand come to rest on my back.

“Sir,” Jeeves was saying, his tone surprisingly gentle and un-soupy, “It’s alright sir.” I shook my head stubbornly, and he sighed, “I assure you, sir, nothing untoward happened.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” I mumbled into his shirtfront, and I could almost hear his eyebrow twitch.

“No, sir. If you will observe, sir, you are in your pyjamas, and I am still clothed.” I blinked. There was considerable truth to what he was saying, and I lifted my head to observe him.

“Well, what did happen then?” I croaked, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, in a way that only a close scholar of the Jeevesian map would recognize as amusement. His eyes, meanwhile, looked almost indulgent.

“Well, sir.” He paused. “I believe you wanted to… cuddle, sir.”

“My God, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, my whole facing turning as red as a beet that has been dipped in red dye, “and you agreed to this? I mean, it’s a dashed sight better than allowing me to manhandle you, and all, but I’m quite certain there’s nothing in your job description that says you must cuddle the young master, no matter how deep I may be in my cups. You needn’t feel obligated, I mean.”

“It is no hardship, sir,” he assured me, with a certain indefinable thingummy in his voice, and his large hand slid rather soothingly up and down my back.

“Jolly good, then,” I mumbled. I was certainly not about to argue with that, and I admit I turned rather boneless against him. We lay like that for awhile, until Spode’s turn at Irish dancing became unbearable.

“I feel bally awful, Jeeves,” I complained, pouting a bit as he sat up and attempted to disentangle himself from the clinging Wooster limbs. I turned my best puppy-dog expression on him, and he regarded me patiently.

“Sir, if you would like me to bring you a restorative preparation, you will need to release me.”

“Oh alright,” I grumbled, unwrapping myself from the Jeevesian corpus. “Only come back to bed when you’re done. You’re the nicest pillow I’ve ever had.” He graced me with a rare, but genuine smile as he floated out of the room.

“Very good, sir.”


End file.
